


Sign Anything (A Retelling)

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Canon Era, Crack-ish, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Good morgana, M/M, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon, Pining Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 17:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14169483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: This is the story of a prince in love with his manservant, living out a fantastic thing people call HEA.However, since it is this particular prince in question, things are more complicated than they have to be.





	Sign Anything (A Retelling)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If It Stands Still Long Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14147163) by [arthur_pendragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon). 



> I challenged myself to rewrite If It Stands Still Long Enough differently and then once I was done, realised I'd remixed my own fic... s i g h
> 
> It stands alone, I just linked it to the other one for the reason I said above.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic <3

 

This is the story of a prince in love with his manservant, living out a fantastic thing people call HEA.

However, since it is this particular prince in question, things are more complicated than they have to be.

It begins something like this:

Once upon a time, in a great kingdom called Camelot, there lived a handsome prince called Arthur Pendragon. He had a certain je ne sais quoi and the potential to be a great man, but his station afforded him the luxury of being an arsehole to absolutely everyone but his father, the king Uther Pendragon—also an arsehole in his own right, but not the focus of this story.

The prince was a fit young man of twenty-one. His people swooned when he walked past them, sang songs about the pout of his mouth, fell over themselves to appear in his line of sight. Arthur, of course, was aware of all the hero-worship and well past the age he used to crave this sweet, sweet validation. He whiled his days away training his knights for distant battles, clopping around the borders of the kingdom on one of his many horses, and arguing furiously with his stepsister over bagatelles like the uneven hem of his jacket and the noise he had once made swallowing a vegetable. One might say the prince was unhappy with the comparative inactivity of his lifestyle, but never actually in front of him, for he would vehemently deny all charges and then consign one to the stocks.

Tedium dogged the prince’s footsteps wherever he went, and no, it did not do wonders for his temperament at all. Mornings found him aiming sharp daggers at whoever braved entry to his rooms; evenings found him morose and overflowing with the kind of concentrated rotgut his father reserved for spy interrogations.

“You know what you need?” the Lady Morgana said to him one day.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless of my answer,” Arthur replied, which was a more coherent sentence than he had managed all week.

“You need change,” Morgana declared, frowning at the litter of Arthur’s things on the floor.

“I’m pleased to know you care about my wellbeing, Morgana,” Arthur said, full of surprises (it had been some time since Morgana had heard him communicating in anything more than grunts) (Arthur made it a point never to be courteous around her, but it was early morning and he was only half-awake).

“Your ennui is a contagious disease and I’m only scared for myself,” Morgana replied, turning her nose up at him. Arthur blearily stared at her.

“Get _out_ of my room, I’m naked under these sheets,” he said.

* * *

 

Change came soon to Camelot, in the form of a beanpole named Merlin who had a smile like the sun. He was ridiculously fetching and also, in Arthur’s important opinion, an incredible waste of Camelot’s generous space. One might even say Arthur fell in love with him the minute he dared to stand up to the prince’s cruel treatment of his servant-of-the-week, but again: one might never say it in front of Arthur himself, who, confronted by honesty, might die of anaphylactic shock.

Since Arthur was quite indisposed to seeing Merlin, he regularly sought him out—only to build up his immunity, naturally. Merlin didn’t welcome the intrusions on his privacy, but the prince was the prince and he would do as he wished. One thing led to another, and Merlin (unenthusiastically, if one were to ask him) saved Arthur from a grieving mother using an errant chandelier and the strictly confidential deceleration of time.

King Uther then had the (good? bad? TBD) sense to make the boy Arthur’s manservant.

“You make my life impossible, you know,” Arthur said, scowling at the tub of lukewarm water he was supposed to luxuriate in. He had actually meant to say _if you could please use your magic to heat it properly next time_ , but there might be some truth to that whole in-love nonsense, in that Arthur didn’t want to land Merlin in hot water (pun unintended). Not a word to another soul about this, you.

“That’s what I live for, making your life impossible,” Merlin said, unimpressed with Arthur’s displeasure.

“Would you like me to release you from your torturous incarceration as my servant?” Arthur said, disbelieving that he had had the courage to say it. Merlin looked immediately downcast, and it should not have cheered Arthur as much as it did.

“Do you want me gone?” Merlin asked, scuffing the toe of his boot on the floor.

“Never,” Arthur said. In his head, unfortunately. “I’m in love with you and I couldn’t bear to be apart from you.” Also in his head.

“Every day, but I can’t be bothered to train a new manservant, so I suppose you can remain,” Arthur said out loud.

Merlin smiled as if he had read Arthur’s mind anyway.

He might have, actually. Arthur tried not to think about it.

* * *

 

In the interest of getting to the point, this story chooses to blithely skip over the three years of adventure and romance (not that kind, but Arthur lived in hope) that Arthur and Merlin shared after that. Let it just be said that the bond between them strengthened and grew infrangible (one must surrender to the urge to use fancy words for a story like this), to the extent that Arthur strode into his room one day as Merlin swept the hearth and casually broke the news of Merlin and his relationship to Merlin himself.

It was a testament to the attachment between them that Merlin didn’t resign his post on the spot.

“I do pity your having to wed a stranger who retches at the sight of you,” Merlin said slowly, “but I really don’t see why I have to be a part of this.”

“Merlin,” Arthur began patiently. “If it were common knowledge around the castle that you and I have a deviant sexual affair, I rather think the girl’s father might leave Camelot without a backward glance at me, thus sparing me from a dire fate.”

“It already is,” Merlin said, confused. “Common knowledge, I mean. Don’t you ever eavesdrop at the kitchen doors?”

“I am an aristocratic perso _nality_ , I don’t do peasanty things like that! What were they saying?”

“You know,” Merlin waved a hand around vaguely. “That we’re fucking. On every untaken surface.”

“That’s it?”

“ _You’re_ very interested all of a sudden.”

“I just need to know how much fuel to add to the fire.”

“When did you become such a schemer?”

“I’m going to be king some day, scheming comes to me as inherently as sword-fighting.” Inasmuch as both had had to be taught by Uther to his naïve, golden son, but there were some things Merlin could go without knowing.

Merlin pouted and dithered and finally capitulated.

“What do you want us to do?” he asked.

“Get caught mid-fuck,” Arthur said.

“ _No_ ,” Merlin said.

“For me,” Arthur said.

“All right,” Merlin said.

* * *

 

Arthur might have been suspicious of the deservedly-suspicious lack of protests Merlin had offered him, but as they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth, why would you want to do that. Arthur would continue thinking Merlin harboured no feelings for him, while simultaneously pushing him against random walls and plundering his mouth.

The plundering part—that had yet to be got to, as they were waiting for the royal entourage to arrive in the first place. Arthur was getting rather impatient because a man in love can be nothing but, and also Merlin was being quite distracting with his hands and his face and his “I think you’re slowly going insane, Arthur.”

So the prince took matters into his own hands.

“Would you like to practise with me?” said Arthur, diffident, one fine evening as they were making their way back from the courtyard. Arthur had spent a pleasant time there, tucking flowers behind little babies’ ears as their proud mothers looked on, sparring with eager young children, and talking about harvests with the occasional farmer and his wife. No, he would not have thought to do this as often as he did before Merlin turned up on his land, but that was Merlin through and through—turning Arthur’s world upside down, shifting his perspective, baring his very core to all and sundry.

Merlin stopped in his tracks and eyed Arthur’s filthy armour and the visible, sweat-dampened patches of his tunic. Arthur quailed inwardly.

“No, wait,” he said. “I haven’t cleaned my teeth since this morning. I also need to bath first.”

“That wasn’t what I—you’ve shoved my face into your armpit before, for God’s sake—” Merlin lightly pulled Arthur to him, making Arthur forcibly aware of the difference between their heights.

“C’mon, stretch up,” Merlin teased. There was a mischievous smile on his face as he wound his arms around Arthur’s neck. “Kiss me if you’re tall enough.”

“Only half a head, Merlin, shut up,” Arthur muttered, complying, with his heart fluttering in his chest.

Merlin kissed him back carefully, slowly, as if Arthur was someone to savour to the fullest, like a fine wine or a particularly beautiful marigold. Arthur could have let it go on forever, but even princes knew not to be too covetous lest their greed snatch their treasures from them.

“You know,” Merlin gasped as he pulled away to rest his forehead on Arthur’s. “Arthur, I really haven’t done this before—I mean I have, but never with someone I—”

“I know,” Arthur replied. “It was obvious you lack any experience. I told you we needed practice. Come on.”

He artfully dodged the shove Merlin aimed at him, and they made their way back to Arthur’s bedchamber.

* * *

 

Not for _that_! Just hearty banter and armour-polishing in front of the fire. And a silent torrent (originating from the good prince) of passionate yearning and the exceptional heartbreak borne of unrequited love. Children (why are you reading this M-rated story), allow this über-pretentious storyteller to advise you never to fall in love. Or, at least, never to be the sort of blockhead that can’t see his manservant’s fondness for him if it parades in its knickers under his nose.

* * *

 

“Marriage,” Arthur said out of the blue. Morgana tutted and shared a meaningful glance with Gwen.

“Hm,” Merlin contributed.

“Why do I need to marry this princess?” Arthur asked the three of them.

“It’d be very entertaining to see you miserable on what is meant to be the happiest day of your life,” Morgana said, the very picture of innocence. Arthur sniffed.

“The happiest day of my life will be when I am crowned king,” he said.

It was a snowy day, eight days before Yuletide. The princess was supposed to touch Camelot’s borders on Yuletide eve, and Arthur was making the most of whatever freedom he still had by dragging his servant, his stepsister, and her servant out to the small patch of untended field just beyond the stables.

“It’s cold,” Merlin said, unwilling to talk about Arthur’s impending nuptials for some reason.

“Isn’t it? Here, have my cloak,” Gwen said but before she could even unclasp it from her neck, something thick and warm hit Merlin in the face.

Arthur _sans_ cloak turned to gather snow into a ball, cheeks red. From the cold, of course.

“Snowball fight?” Morgana asked. “Are you really going to challenge me? After _seven years_ of being trounced?”

“One should never give up,” Arthur declared, turning back to them with a large snowball and a larger smile.

In the end, Merlin won. Somehow. Arthur secreted away the memory of Merlin’s golden eyes in a musty corner of his heart.

“I should like to get married,” he said for want of anything else to say. He was drenched and shivering and didn’t want the day to end. “But not now, and not to her. Which is why I’m eternally grateful I have Merlin’s hand to hold through this.”

Merlin nodded, equally pathetic.

Morgana pelted Arthur with one last snowball.

* * *

 

Dawn broke one day before Yuletide eve.

By now, Arthur was cornering Merlin in all corners of the castle, giving servants and nobles alike an eyeful. They did paint a very pretty picture, the two of them, what with their contrasting hair and dispositions. Someone even left fan art outside Gaius’s room of Merlin and Arthur in a compromising position the other day. Merlin took one look at it, squawked, and sent it up in flames.

“Do you need any help preparing for the feast?” Arthur asked the good people of the kitchen, and got a resounding _how dare you question our work ethic, Your Highness_ , in answer.

“Do you need any help fetching rushes?” he asked the chambermaids, and was forcibly ejected from the princess’s room for his trouble.

He opened his mouth in front of Morgana and got it stuffed with cheesecake.

“Do you have anything for me to do?” he asked his father the king.

“Yes, stop being a hindrance to everyone,” the king replied. Arthur’s shoulders drooped.

“When are they going to arrive?” he asked plaintively. “I’d much rather skip ahead to the day they leave.”

“I have important work to do, fuck off,” the king said—well, he looked like he wanted to say it, but refrained out of whatever paternal affection he was still capable of.

“Bye,” Arthur said dully, and went out to the training grounds alone. Merlin was off collecting plants for Gaius: the sole reason Arthur was so, so cheerful.

The knights had been given the week off by Arthur in one of his more magnanimous moods the previous day (when Merlin had readily kissed him in the ballroom for _ages_ and had even undone Arthur’s breeches in the name of practice). So he found no one willing to brave the frost for a bit of sparring, except a wilted straw dummy that was beheaded, castrated, and eviscerated by the time Arthur was done with it.

“Ouch,” said a pleasingly familiar voice behind him as Arthur contemplated his handiwork.

“Merlin, where _have_ you been,” Arthur said, turning to face him.

“Gathering Gaius’s favourite wormwood, I told you when I left last night,” Merlin said and raised his heavy bag as proof. “You look horrible. Is that _rime_ under your nose?”

Arthur gladly accompanied him on the long trek to Gaius’s herbarium/infirmary/room, slinging an arm around Merlin’s waist. Merlin returned the favour.

Gaius was waiting for Merlin when they knocked and entered. He raised an eyebrow at the cold sweat dripping off the locks of Arthur’s hair but merely said, “Thank you, Merlin. Would you both like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Merlin said, dropping the bag into Gaius’s chair, but Arthur pulled him away from Gaius and into Merlin’s minuscule room, shutting the door behind him. Merlin blinked at him.

“That was very rude,” he told Arthur. “Let’s go back out.”

“Take your shirt off,” Arthur said in response.

Merlin quietly took his shirt off. Arthur helped him.

“Chausses next.”

“I was only gone a day,” Merlin said. “Wait, you missed me!”

Arthur touched his lips to Merlin’s clavicle. “Just practising,” he murmured.

“You’re freezing, Arthur,” Merlin said.

Arthur watched Merlin’s nipples harden and ran a fingertip over one. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe for the intensity of his desire for the man in front of him. He dropped to his knees. Merlin gasped, looking down at him.

“Chausses,” Arthur repeated.

Merlin, trembling now, undid the laces and let his trousers drop. No small-clothes. Arthur thanked his stars silently.

“It felt like an eternity of hell without you,” Arthur said. There was every chance that his body wasn’t feeding blood to his brain anymore if he had actually said that out loud, which he had.

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin sighed.

Arthur leant closer.

Merlin gently coaxed his mouth open; Arthur closed his eyes and let the taste of Merlin unfurl across his tongue.

* * *

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Arthur said afterwards, warm and dry and not in the mood to pulverise straw dummies anymore.

Merlin went still in his arms.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. “Do you want to stop practising?”

“Yes,” Arthur said.

Merlin shuffled out of bed and started pulling his clothes on.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Arthur almost brought out his sword and fell upon it.

“I meant in public,” he said. “Get back in, Merlin.”

Merlin looked at him. Arthur couldn’t actually see his eyes in the gloom of the winter evening, but his gaze was near tangible.

“Is there an end date for this?” Merlin asked quietly.

“…why?”

“I’d rather end things here and now than keep… _rehearsing_.”

“Well, if you want this to stop,” Arthur said, eyes stinging inexplicably.

“Arthur,” Merlin said in anguish. “You don’t understand.”

“Educate me.”

“I would rather _die_ ,” Merlin said. “Than have there be a last time that I kiss you.”

“You can’t have both at once, idiot,” Arthur muttered, because as the prince and the future ruler of the great kingdom of Camelot, he had been raised not to be too emotionally vulnerable at any given moment.

Merlin laughed despite himself.

“Please don’t make me elaborate,” he said.

“You don’t need to. Come back, Merlin. I can’t believe you’re able to sleep in this pathetic bed.”

* * *

 

On the morning of Yuletide eve, the doors to the council chamber opened to admit the prince and his manservant. Morgana and Gwen followed soon after, as Arthur had told them of his intentions and Morgana had promptly said that she had to see this for herself.

“Father, I have something important to say,” Arthur said, firmly holding onto the hand that Merlin was trying to tug out of his grasp.

Uther Pendragon stared at them, contemplative, inscrutable. The rest of his council, who were fortunately or otherwise used to the prince’s idiosyncrasies, went silent and cast about for something to look at.

“Speak,” the king rumbled finally.

“I refuse to marry the princess Rosamund,” Arthur proclaimed. Merlin gave up on the tugging and manoeuvred himself to a position behind Arthur as behoved a servant. Arthur promptly brought him back out. “I hate her and I would rather die than wake up every morning to her face.”

Three of Uther’s most trusted advisors choked on air.

“I see,” Uther said.

“Please inform King Fabian that his daughter and I have harboured mutual loathing for each other since time immemorial and that forcing us to wed is torture of the worst kind.”

“Is that so,” Uther said.

“You might as well turn them away at the gates right now since they’re not getting what they’re here for.”

“Arthur,” Gaius piped up. “That’s _not_ why they’re coming to Camelot.”

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Never mind, then. I have further things to discuss with your permission.”

“You could’ve held onto that secret for two minutes more, it was just getting entertaining,” the king said to Gaius, who smiled wryly and mumbled something about preserving the prince’s pride.

Morgana snorted. Arthur reddened.

Uther said, “I used to think you take after your mother, you know, Arthur, until you barged in here with that… special assumption. That arrogance, without doubt, is a quality only I could have passed down to you.”

More could be said about the king at this point, but again, he is not the focus of this story.

“You had more to say?” Uther continued, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Yes,” Arthur said, recovering quickly. “I’m going to marry Merlin.”

“Absolutely not,” Uther said, smile disappearing. “Out of the question.”

“Well, he’s still mine forever,” Arthur said, ignoring Merlin’s squeak. “I’m certainly not going to stop being in love with him.”

“…a more acceptable outcome given the circumstances,” Uther said. “Be more dignified about it, I hear you’ve been scandalising people left and right these days.”

(Propose a worse thing to be granted the bad one; Prince Arthur had received an excellent education in the art of strategy from the very man he had just fooled.)

“If there’s any other questions you had about your own importance?” Morgana whispered, curtsying to hide her grin.

“No, have a pleasant day, Father. Many apologies for this intrusion,” Arthur said, hastily making an exit with Merlin in tow.

“You will be the death of me,” Merlin said into Arthur’s mouth eventually, laughing. “I love you, you ass.”

Arthur grinned and shamelessly slipped a ring onto Merlin’s finger.

“Shut up, sorcerer,” he replied. “Love you, too.”

* * *

 

This is how the story ends:

The princess Rosamund and her father come to Camelot, partake in the Yuletide celebrations, and leave. Arthur snipes at her throughout her stay, and she gives as good as she gets. She befriends Merlin and Arthur is an arse about it for about a week after she departs.

Arthur’s glorious life only grows more liveable since. He retains his je ne sais quoi and cements his position as the apple of his people’s eye. Tedium vanishes from his days to the point that it is sometimes sorely missed; but irrespective of what his future holds, Arthur is sure that each moment of his life that he shares with Merlin is his most contented.

…and they lived happily ever after—or at least until the time Merlin accidentally set Uther’s chair on fire, Uther still in it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought! I'd love to hear your opinions.


End file.
